An Assassin's Knife
by dontstopnow
Summary: Pre season 1, two assassins, one Plantagenet king and the seige of Acre.  Some betrayals are never forgotten.


**An Assassin's Knife**

Acre's walls still stood. They were scarred and scorched from siege and battle, but they rose still over the strand of shore and the barren sweep of land beyond. A hole gaped in the stone curtain on the landward side of the gatehouse, full now with rubble and broken timber. One of the great gates hung broken and twisted, its wooden beams a splintered wreck. To one side, like the bones of some vast dead beast, lay the remains of the ram that had done the splintering, burnt and toppled. Beneath the battered walls boiled an army of tents and soldiery, bright banners snapping in the wind blowing in off the sea, horses and men sweating and stinking beneath the blaze of the sun, and in the broad harbour low ships rode at anchor, flying colours that matched the banners ashore; red and gold, gold and blue … and everywhere, white slashed with red, the Crusader's cross.

"It stinks in there." Nasir slid down into the shade of a broad stone scarp some short distance from the city's walls and the camp that squatted around them. "Franks. Death. Filth. It is no fitting place for a dog." A baring of teeth went with that, and the man spat, deliberately vulgar. "They live like swine. And if they've dug a new privy trench in the last month, I'm a dancing girl."

Dragging his burnous from his shoulders, Nasir cast the garment onto the bundle near his companion's feet and ran a hand through his hair, tossing the sweat-damp black curls into disarray. His companion, who could not have cared less for the state of the Frankish privies, lay down the knife hilt he had been rebinding and regarded him with dark, demanding eyes.

"Were you seen?"

"Of course I was seen, Sarak." Nasir's eyes flashed, daring the rebuke. "I am not a lizard to slither beneath a rock; I'm careful, not invisible. But I wasn't noticed, if that's your concern."

"We are not meant to be here," Sarak pointed out, in a tone that denied debate. "If word gets back to …"

"Word won't. And who would recognise me, in any case? Or you."

Sarak smiled at that. It was not a pleasant expression. "Me? Who can say. And as for you … Ah, Malik Kemal, you're enough your father's son for people to see it in your face."

"People, as you've taught me O Da'i, don't look." The younger man lifted a half full waterskin from the saddle pack that lay nearby and took a healthy swallow, shooting his companion a hard glance. "And don't call me Malik. I've earned my name."

"I know," Sarak said simply. His one-time apprentice was clearly in an argumentative mood; Sarak did not care to indulge him. "I'd not have given it to you, else."

Standing, Sarak turned his back on Nasir and peered out over the scarp at the torn walls and the scurrying Franks. It looked like chaos, but then, most military camps looked like that. As he watched, a rider on a fast horse ploughed through the camp, drawing to a halt outside a large, low tent in a spray of dust. Men eddied like water around a rock; someone in a plain tabard was shouting, the sound beyond faint on the light air. Oh yes, they were up to something. Sarak spoke over his shoulder.

"What did you find out?"

Nasir's brief silence was answer enough. Sarak nodded.

"It's true, then."

"It's true. Salah al-Din has ceded the city to the Franks, and the Franks are turning on each other like rabid dogs when it comes to holding it." Nasir's voice seemed calm, but Sarak knew him well enough to hear the anger and contempt in it. "Salah al-Din and the Frankish commanders agreed to terms, and the Franks have taken hostages to see those terms are held to. Nearly three thousand of them."

"Combatants?" Sarak frowned, glancing at the younger man. The number seemed high for that.

"No. Not all."

"Civilians." Sarak growled in disgust. "These Franks have no honour."

"Malik Rik," Nasir pointed out, "is known for many things. Honour is not always amongst them." The English king had come to these shores with his reputation sailing before him; the man that some called the Lionheart had shown himself a fine warrior, but inconsistent in his loyalties and brutal in his tempers, and that was before he had been given a crown and taken the Cross. Kingship and crusading had done nothing, so far as Nasir could see, to improve him.

"Malik Rik." The name sounded like a curse on Sarak's lips. In the camp, the man with the plain tabard had hauled back his mailed coif and seemed to be arguing furiously with someone. His hair was dark bronze in the sun. "Richard of England. He leads here?"

"So far as anyone can tell." Nasir came to stand at his friend's shoulder, gazing out at the distant mass of men. "They snap at each other like jackals squabbling over carrion. One of their leaders has left their cause already, and the others waver. But the prisoners are Coeur de Lion's, yes."

"And you want to do something about it." That was not a question. Sarak knew this man, had trained him from the time he had first arrived at Masyaf, a well-born young thing barely out of childhood, and sure of himself with his titles and his manners and his noble blood. That had been many years ago. That boy was grown now, with his titles second to his calling. His manners came and went, and his blood had spilled as red as any commoner's, but he was noble still, and still sure of himself. Oh yes, Sarak knew him.

Oblivious to his companion's thoughts, Nasir made a quick, fierce gesture with one hand. "Yes. Something. There are women, Sarak. Children. No man should make his wars against those. It is written."

Ah, there he went again with that odd idealism. Sarak slanted him a glance, eyes shuttered. The Brotherhood made their wars on whatever targets they were given; if he himself had never been called on to show his faithfulness by killing children, it did not mean it could not be. Nasir was a fine fighter, and for stealth and surety of strike he could not be matched, but he was given to thinking too much, prone to too many questions. Sarak supposed that the boy had learned that from him. He had been known to question as well – to do more than question, if truth were told – but at least he had been discreet. Still, a better teacher would have been more careful with what examples he set. There were words – even thoughts – that could get a man killed. Sometimes, Sarak wondered how long either of them would survive.

"Sarak? O Da'i?" Perhaps Nasir had picked up on his thoughts after all. Sarak frowned and hissed.

"Don't call me that. Save it for the Old Man. Your apprenticeship is well over – as you pointed out."

"Perhaps," the younger man nodded thoughtfully, then gave a sudden grin that made him look a boy again. "But you will always be my teacher. You can't help yourself. It isn't in you."

Sarak shook his head. _Ah, Malik. There's a lot in me that I never knew. _"You think not?"

"You gave me my name, what, five years ago? And still you see to it that I don't trip on my own folly and break my neck."

"Someone has to." Sarak grunted, as if it didn't matter. Nasir wasn't fooled. He quirked one eyebrow, still with that boyish grin; Sarak saw and growled at him, ignoring the coil of pride and shame in his gut

_(by my eyes, if he knew what I've done …)_

and giving one hand a dismissive flick. "Don't flatter yourself, boy. You know I don't like to see my good work go to waste, that's all." He turned, moved back towards the shade. "And I won't have you getting us both killed out of carelessness. We will do nothing here."

That took the grin off Nasir's face. His eyes hardened; he lifted his jaw to its most regal, most stubborn angle. Noble blood indeed, Sarak thought, not for the first time. His father would have been proud.

"We have to," Nasir insisted. "Whatever ad-Din Sinan says, this is our fight too."

"Ad-Din Sinan will tell you what your fight is, boy, and you'll accept it. Nothing else matters."

"Nothing … of course this matters! The Franks bring war to our land, destruction to our people …"

"Not your people."

"… and we spend our efforts unseating those who could resist them, who could bring the people together to fight, and let these barbarians have their way with our cities, our women and children? How does that not matter?"

Merciful Allah, that was dangerous talk. Sarak did what he had to do to stop it, rounding on the younger man with a sudden snarl. His eyes and voice were like ice in the dry, sun-drenched heat.

"Do you question the Teachings, boy? Have you lost faith?"

Nasir stared. That was an accusation that might have meant blood, had it come from anyone else. His hands, that had turned to fists at his sides, trembled with the force of his denial.

"No!'

"Then turn your dagger where you are ordered to turn it, and leave the thinking to your betters!"

Sarak let his gaze lock to Nasir's until the younger man's eyes dropped, then sighed and took Nasir by the shoulder, drawing him back down into the shelter of their small camp beneath the rock wall. He tried to make his voice gentle. Bad enough that he himself should have strayed so far from the loyalties he should have held; he had not trained this man to see him stray too. No matter what the provocation.

"I dislike this as much as you do, Malik. But this is not our place, my brother. We shouldn't be here at all; we can't act on this."

"But we _are_ here."

"Boy, you nag at me like a woman. I tell you no, do you not hear me?" Sarak made a gesture of finality. "The Old Man won't like it."

"The Old Man won't have to know." Nasir's mouth tightened. "And in any case, the Old Man needs to figure out which side he's on. He's had us roosting with the crows and flying with the eagles for too long."

Sarak's hand, calloused from years of sword and rein, swung like a striking snake, hard and fast. There was a sharp dry sound like a branch breaking and Nasir's head rocked back; for a moment, sparks of light burst behind his eyes. He blinked, stunned. Sarak leaned close, fisting a hand in the younger man's robes and pulling him in. White teeth flashed in Nasir's face.

"Do not say such things to me, lest I forget the blood that runs in you and curse you for a fool! Ad-Din Sinan hears a whisper, and your death will come on wings."

"And who will tell him? You?" Nasir's lip curled in almost a sneer in spite of the throbbing in his jaw. He'd had beatings from Sarak before – not for years now, but he knew the strength of this man's hands – and he knew when he was holding back. He even knew why. He was not blind, after all. Sarak had taught him to observe, and to observe well. The man might be surprised what his one-time apprentice had seen. Nasir had always been a good student. "You think the same, you know you do. You've said so yourself."

"Maybe." Sarak's expression as he released him was odd, disgust and regret and pride all mixed together. Nasir wondered briefly what to make of it. "And no, I'll not tell the Old Man. I'd not give you to him – I'd kill you more cleanly than that. But I will see to it that you learn silence, if I have to cut out your tongue to do it. I'll do that if I must, and count it my failure as your teacher that you'd learn no other way. I warn you, Malik Kemal. Don't push me."

For a moment, Nasir neither moved nor spoke. It wasn't the threat that stilled him: Sarak threatened him with death or worse usually on the order of once a week, and yet he lived and breathed. That was only Sarak's way. No, it was what else the man had said, and the respect – the desperation – behind the warning. That was new. That was something Sarak meant – a gift, from one warrior to another. Very lightly, Nasir reached out and touched two fingertips to the other man's wrist.

"You'd give me a cleaner death? Your word?"

"Cleaner than he would. You've seen what he can do." There was a look in Sarak's eyes that might have been pain. "You … Malik, you _talk_. It'll cost you your life."

Nasir considered that. Then, at last, he lowered his gaze to the sand.

"My apologies, brother. I spoke out of turn." He took a deep breath. "I thank you for your rebuke."

Well, the boy had discipline enough, when he chose to remember it. Sarak nodded, and clasped his hand wrist to wrist in wordless acceptance. He hoped that Nasir would take his caution to heart. Sometimes he wished that his own teacher was alive to have rebuked him when his thoughts got the better of him, before he could have made the choices

_(Your information is accurate?_

_From the Old Man's own scribe._

_Good. You'll find the coin is what we agreed._

_I'd expect no less)_

he had made. Then perhaps he would not have found himself in the position he was in now.

Pushing that from his mind, Sarak reclaimed the worn knife hilt and set about finishing the binding: it would not do for a man's hand to slip when he made his strike, after all. Nasir watched him for a short while, then settled himself cross-legged and turned his face to the cooling breeze, calm and quiet. They sat together in easy silence as the sun made its way down the western slope of the sky. Soon the evening prayer would come, and then they would move on in the darkness that followed. With any luck, the Franks would never know they had been here at all.

It was peaceful, now that Nasir had stowed his perilous talk. The younger man was right, of course – and that was what made his words so dangerous. It was true that Rashid ad-Din Sinan, called the Old Man of the Mountains, had been indiscriminate in naming their enemies of late; it was true too that as many of those that the faithful had slain were good sons of Islam as were infidel aggressors. Sarak preferred not to think about that, just as he preferred not to think about the words that had been said and the money that had changed hands, or about the power that rippled and eddied in the spaces ad-Din Sinan had emptied. It was becoming, though, increasingly difficult to ignore.

There had been a time when Sarak had believed in his Brotherhood and their cause, a time when he had not questioned anything at all. He had been a happier man back then, with no hope or expectation but to lay down his life for his beliefs. Now he had seen more, and knew better. Ad-Din Sinan acted as much for political gain as he ever did for the defence of the Faith, valued his own power above the welfare of his people. He treated, even, with the infidel who sacked the holy places and attacked pilgrims and raided the caravanserai along the trading roads. There was no honour in any of that.

Nasir was right. It was the Franks who were the enemy, more than any Seljuq or Imam or Caliph. And yet where did the daggers of the faithful go in search of blood? It was foolishness, worse than foolishness. Perhaps ad-Din Sinan had lost his straight path as well as his mind – and Sarak had no doubt that the man was mad: no one could be so arbitrary in their nature as the Old Man and still lay claim to sanity – and forgotten the battle that they were meant to fight. That thought had long gnawed at Sarak's mind. If he was being used – if they all were, all the faithful that ad-Din Sinan laid claim to – it should at least be for a cause he believed in.

Sarak's thoughts strayed to Acre, crouching behind him in its ruined walls. Three thousand prisoners, three thousand Muslim souls held hostage to Salah al-Din's word and the Franks' good faith. Sarak did not like the idea of that any more than Nasir did, but he was damned if he could see what could be done about it. The city's garrison might fight free if their bonds were loosed, but what of the others? Civilians, merchants and traders, potters and painters and poets – they would not fight. And if there were women, with children at their skirts … what could two men do about that?

Something. Anything. Ad-Din Sinan be damned.

"Nasir. Brother." Sarak spoke slowly, almost absently. "May I ask you, what did you intend?"

At first there was no response, but then Nasir stirred from his meditation and gave a brief frown.

"What?"

"When you spoke of … doing something … about the Franks and their prisoners, what was it that you had in mind?"

Silence. Then; "Not much. A message, perhaps. A warning. That we watch, that they are not beyond our reach."

"Not a killing?" Sarak hefted the small knife in his hand and regarded its blade carefully. "Sending Richard of England to his personal God, perhaps?"

Nasir gave his companion a slow glance, then shrugged. "I thought there might be … consequences."

"For the Lionheart?" Sarak gave a quiet snort of laughter and put his blade away. "There would be. The Old Man has not moved against him, and there are reasons for that. The retribution for it would be a hard thing, for one thing …"

"But worth it."

"Maybe." Sarak rolled his eyes at the younger man's bravado. "For another thing, the Lionheart may yet prove useful. You know ad-Din Sinan likes to play our enemies off against each other. I doubt he'd thank you for taking this into your own hands." That was true; the Old Man of the Mountains did not like his faithful veering from his control. "And then you have the hostages to consider. How long do you think they would live, if the camp woke to find an assassin's knife in Malik Rik's heart? A message, though … it might give him pause for thought."

"So, then." Nasir nodded calmly, as if a sudden fierce joy had not just clenched in his gut and lit up his spine. The prospect of battle did that to him. Sarak would let him go. He should have known that he would, once he'd had time to think. Sarak did not make decisions on impulse. "What do you think I should do?"

Sarak surprised himself by laughing out loud.

"What should you do?" he repeated. "What you should do, is leave it well enough alone. But that's not what you're going to do, is it. Whatever I tell you."

"You know I respect your words, my brother," Nasir said mildly, but his eyes sparkled. Sarak shook his head, rueful and resigned. He recognised that look.

"If any other man confounded me half so often as you do, I'd kill him thrice over. You're a fool, Malik."

"Yes, perhaps." Nasir brought his own knife out of nowhere and made it dance in his hand. The blade flared, bright and keen like its master's grin. "But I'm a young fool. I'll learn."

"If you live long enough."

"Allah willing, I'll live a while yet."

"Allah willing." Sarak plucked the knife out his companion's hand and made it spin over his knuckles before flicking it back. "You know, if you did manage to get yourself killed over this, I'm not sure what would be worse. Telling the Old Man you slipped his leash, or facing your father. The Old Man might have me tossed from the walls for letting you go. Your father though …"

"Tell him I joined the martyrs in Paradise, and am feasting in fine company with beautiful women."

"He's always blamed me that you joined the Brotherhood, you know. Cousin or not, he'd have my hide."

"Probably." Nasir inclined his head in that familiar, courtly way, spoiled only a little by his fierce white smile. He tossed the knife into the sand at his feet; it landed between his boots, upright and quivering. "He's like that. Good at holding grudges. It runs in the blood."

"Take care, Malik. Your word?"

"Always, my brother. If I do this right, no one dies." Nasir looked up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. All anticipation, no fear. "Not me, not the Lionheart."

"Good." Sarak threw the waterskin at him. "Now clean up. It's time for prayer. Then, when it's dark, since you must do this thing in spite of good sense, you will go."

"With your blessing, brother?"

"With my blessing." Sarak felt suddenly

_(if he knew if he only knew)_

hollow. He found he did not want to look at Nasir, fearing what the younger man might see in his face. Fear gave him strength; he looked anyway. "May peace go with you, and may you win glory in the name of Allah and follow in the path of the Prophet, blessings be upon him, for all of your days."

If that blessing was stronger than it needed to be, and if Sarak's voice had caught a little at the end of it as if surprised by its own intensity, Nasir did not notice except to bow his head in acknowledgement.

"My thanks." Setting about his ritual ablutions, the young man sluiced water carefully over his hands and face. "And Sarak?"

"Yes?"

"You've really got to stop calling me Malik."

**

* * *

**

Richard Plantagenet, by the Grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou and Lord of Poitiers, was in a foul mood. This should have been a time for celebration; he had, after all, won a famous victory here. For two years Acre had stood against the forces of Christendom, her garrison holding fast against anything the crusader army could throw at them … and then Richard had arrived with his fresh troops and his clever tongue, and he had talked them into surrender in less than a month. Well, Conrad of Monferrat had done most of the actual talking, but Richard had told him what to say. Now Acre was theirs, with more to come if Saladin was as much a man of his word as he was said to be, and Richard should have been enjoying every accolade a man could be given. Instead he was squatting in a stinking camp, taking insult after insult from that French popinjay – Philip always had kept a viper's tongue behind those pretty lips – and trying to keep this army in one piece.

The Austrian Duke – now there was a weak ally if ever Richard had seen one – had already left, taking his troops with him. The man had gone off in a huff, and all because one of his pretty banners had been dunked in a privy pit by a handful of soldiers settling some score. Richard didn't see what the problem was, really; a few of his men and few of Leopold's had got to calling each other names, and one thing had led to another, but a banner could always be replaced. And then Philip, who had been as difficult as a woman since Richard had quit coming to his bed, had started up at him over Leopold's departure, as if it were Richard's fault that the old man couldn't take a joke … sweet Jesu, did none of these men, these so-called kings, know how to make a war but him?

Of course, Richard had been taught by the best. His lady mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was a woman able to pick a fight with the very saints; Richard had learned a trick or two from her. Then there had been his father to contend with, and everything had been a war, with Henry. His marriage, his kingship, his relationship with his sons – all a battle. Richard had won that war, in the end. He would win this one too, even if he went mad in doing so. Richard Plantagenet was not a man who could tolerate defeat.

Which was why, on this warm evening at the end of a hellish day – and why did it have to be so appallingly hot in this damned place, if it came to that? – Richard was slamming around his tent in a temper and thinking very hard about not breaking things. Skulls, for one. Philip's neck, for another.

"Coward. That's what he is. If he's ill, I'm a Saracen."

"A coward would not have come here at all, my lord. But this is proving a hard campaign, and King Philip is not … robust," Conrad said carefully. A wise man was always careful where the Angevin temper was concerned, and Conrad had more cause for care than most. He was Philip's man, for a start, and candidate for a kingship that Richard did not want to give: there were worse things than to be wary. Back in the dim shadows of the tent, Richard's minstrel Blondel was playing something light and easy on the lute – music to soothe the devil's blood, perhaps. Conrad, who knew the infernal story of the Angevin line as well as the next man, hoped that it might suffice. The last thing he wanted was Richard in one of his furies. "Philip was never a soldier, my lord."

Richard snorted at that, his lip curling in disdain.

"Aye, that's true – he always did prefer to fight his battles with words, and at a distance."

Pouring himself a triple measure of wine, Richard downed it in one long swallow and glared toward the back of the tent and Blondel. It was wretchedly hard to rage sufficiently with soft lute music in the air and Conrad being so cursed diplomatic about it all. Now all Conrad said was; "Indeed, my lord." Richard gave a frustrated snarl and set to pacing the room.

Blondel played on. His music hovered at the edge of Richard's mind, tones of tranquillity and cool water. The English king found he could not help but listen. The troubadour had attached himself to Richard some years back, impressed by the volatile warrior-king who wrote poetry in two languages and killed in half a dozen more, and who could shake the sky with either his laughter or his wrath. Richard had tolerated him at first, as he tolerated any admiration – grudgingly and with more than a little suspicion; frankly, he was not used to being complemented for his own sake – but Blondel had proven himself true.

Truer than that snake Philip at any rate, Richard fumed. For everything they'd been, everything they'd had, and now _this_ … the anger made Richard's teeth ache.

"So he betrays me again. I don't know why I'm surprised. He's always been the faithless one, all lies and promises." Richard flung himself down in a low chair, rubbing his head as if it

(_whispers in the dark and I love you and I hate you and the taste of promises and wine oh Philip why this why us?)_

pained him. The man gave a low groan from between set teeth, then swore steadily and viciously in every language he knew.

Philip had abandoned him again, abandoned the crusade this very afternoon. Even now his men were leaving, following their lord. The French king had pled poor health in the end, but Richard knew better. He'd not let Philip have his own way – half of Cyprus and his vassal on the throne of Jerusalem, and wasn't that enough to make a man spit? – and Philip had flounced off like a sulky child. Leaving Richard with an army in the field, a new won city to garrison and all of the Holy Land to win on his own. Not to mention near to three thousand prisoners to keep and care for, and never mind how impossible that would be for an army on the march. The only good thing to come from this whole benighted day was that the first portion of the hostages' ransom had arrived. Conrad, who did not want to discuss Philip any further than he had to, pointed that out.

"At least we need not worry about coin now, in the short term. It seems the Saracen lord is keeping to his word about the hostages."

Richard grunted without opening his eyes.

"Damned prisoners. Better if bloody Saladin had paid in full, then I could be rid of the lot of them. Better if I didn't have them to think about at all."

"And what would hold the Saracens to their word then, my lord?"

"Honour?" Richard suggested brusquely, letting his hand fall and giving the other man a hard stare. "Some men do have it, I'm told. Or maybe plain good sense – Saladin's general enough to know a dead horse when he's beating it. Acre's ours."

"So are the prisoners." Conrad said, with careful deliberation. "Ours to care for until their ransom is paid, my lord. It is what we agreed."

"I don't care what we agreed." Richard shot him a scathing look. "He's a canny one, is Saladin. If he thinks he can keep us waiting here like virgin brides in a marriage bed, he'll do it. If a dead hostage or two is what it takes to show him we mean business, I'll take their heads myself."

To speak so easily of killing hostages … well, Conrad had known that Richard was a hard man. "The lord Saladin has paid half of the ransom, my lord. There's no reason to think he won't pay the rest."

"Eventually."

Conrad blinked, then tried another tact. "Of course, you could always bring them to Christ. Convert them and be rid of them that way."

"What, save their heathen souls?" That made Richard laugh. "Nearly three thousand of them? No chance of that, my lad. You might convince a handful, but the rest will hold out like mules." He shook his head, dark bronze waves glinting in the dim light of the lamps. "No, Saladin will buy them back or I'll do what I have to do. Either way, it had best happen soon. I don't want to be pinned down here. Not with Leopold and Philip gone. I don't like sitting here with my arse to the wind."

"My lord, it is not right to speak …"

"I will speak," Richard announced in a low, hard voice, "of anything I damned well like. And you, my lord of Monferrat, will not speak at all. Get out."

"My lord king …"

"Get out!"

When he had gone, Richard sat back with a curse, lifting one hand to rub at his face. Christ's Blood, but he was tired. The scattering of notes from Blondel's lute paused briefly, then changed into something private and close. Richard waved his hand; the playing stopped, the man drew near.

"My lord. Do you have need …"

"No. Nothing. Your playing's giving me a headache."

Blondel sighed. "Not my playing, my lord." He cast a glance at the shuttered door, then leaned forward to touch the king's hand. "My sweet lord, you deserve better friends than those." His touch lingered longer than it needed to. Richard stirred, moved his hand away.

"I have better friends," the king growled. He gestured to the door, to the camp beyond. "They're out there, soldiering their backsides off for me."

"A king needs more than soldiers, my lord." Blondel let that mean what it would. It hung between them, half hopeful in the still, warm air.

Richard was not in the mood. His gut was churning and his head ached, and there was not enough wine in the world for what he wanted right now. He let out a groan that was half a sigh. It had been a long, miserable day, and he was tired of waiting for it to be over. With a sour grunt, he flicked his hand in dismissal.

"Go away, Blondel. I'm for bed. Send one of my boys in to see to things, will you?"

Richard stretched mightily, making his bones crack as he hauled himself upright and made for the inner room, speaking over his shoulder as he went. "And for the love of Christ man, unless Philip has a change of heart or Saladin is struck by lightening, no one had best disturb me before tomorrow's noon."

* * *

It had not been difficult to make his way into the Frankish camp unnoticed. There was movement afoot, a great deal of it; half of the army seemed to be breaking camp, while the other half did its best to get in the way. It was an easy thing to hide amidst such chaos. Easier in fact than slipping into Acre had been, earlier in the day; then a non-descript burnous and a full saddlebag and a downcast gaze had been sufficient disguise; now he needed no disguise at all. No one noticed another shadow slipping through the dark. Even the dogs that hung about the camp, hungry slat-sided things hunting scraps from the middens, did not bother to bark.

The English king's tent was not hard to find. It lay in the centre of the camp, far from the reek of the filthy privy pits and the horse lines, where the afternoon breezes would bring fresh air from the sea. Twin banners flew over it, gold lions on a field of red, and the bold crusader's cross. Nasir glanced at them and offered an ironic salute. The Franks set such store by their pretty dyed banners that faded so badly in the brutal desert sun. It was good of them to use them, though. It made knowing who their leaders were so very simple.

There were guards on the king's tent, for what that was worth. Nasir barely registered them, beyond the fact that there were four of them and they were all clustered about the tent's door. As if there was only one way into a tent. Ya Allah, but Franks could be such fools.

It was the work of moments to let himself in. A deep patch of shadow, a sharp knife and a trio of horses that had conveniently broken their tethers and cantered past the night patrol were all the cover he needed. The watchmen had set off after the horses; Nasir had slipped under the wall of the English king's tent.

He had meant what he had told Sarak; if he did this right, there would be no blood. No need for blood: the guards were all looking outward, and no one stirred inside. Nasir paused, waiting for his vision to sharpen in the darker black of the royal tent. He was aware of vague shapes around him, more by sense than sight – a low slung chair, a broad table with lamps about, a couch along the far wall. A man with a shock of blond hair was sprawled on that, a patch of light against the dark. Nasir allowed a small smile as he padded past. The man was snoring fit to wake the dead; if no one stirred for that noise, they would not stir for him. He made his way to the inner room.

A boy – a page, probably, by his age – lay on a pallet on the floor, snuffling like a puppy. Nasir stepped over him as he entered, wrinkling his nose at the scent of unwashed bodies and old blankets. His quick eyes scanned the dark, finding at once what he wanted.

Richard of England lay on his belly in an untidy tangle of blankets and bare skin. He was a big man; that was the first thing that Nasir noticed. He was also a restless sleeper, kicking out at some unseen assailant and fisting one hand in his pillow. There was an odd noise coming from where he lay; it took Nasir a moment to understand that the man was grinding his teeth as he slept. Oh yes, restless indeed.

It was a simple enough task, and a simple enough message. Nasir had left it a dozen times before, in places far more difficult to access than this one. A knife, small and sharp, mother-of-pearl inlayed in the hilt in a sign that no one could mistake, left on the pillow of the sleeping man, or driven into the wall behind his head, or on a stool beside his bed; a knife that said, _You are known and marked, and this time we have stayed our hand. We will not stay it twice_. A knife that said, _You live for so long as we want you to live. You die when we want you to die._ It had worked before. It had brought better men than this to their knees.

Nasir stood for a handful of heartbeats, looking at the sleeping king's face. Even at rest he looked fierce, as a hungry wolf looked fierce, or a rabid dog. This was a creature that was made for blood, made for battlefields and baying at the moon; there was nothing peaceful in this. He made Nasir's hackles want to rise.

Swift and sure, Nasir laid the dagger

_(no one dies not the lionheart not me)_

where it was meant to go, letting the point of it slice into the pillows so that a small puff of feathers escaped. They caught on the sleeping man's breath, floating in the dark like lost souls. Nasir watched them rise, then turned and slipped away.

If, for a moment in the dark, Nasir had thought of taking that blade and stopping the English king's heart, no one would know. That he would regret for years to come that he had not was a pain he would learn to bear.

* * *

Richard sat in his tent, glowering darkly at the little dagger that had been buried hilt deep in his pillow when he woke, bare inches from his face. He did not need a scholar to tell him what the symbols on the hilt meant. Richard was not a Plantagenet for nothing; he knew a death threat when he saw one.

Beside him, Conrad of Monferrat drew in a shaky breath. "Hashishyun."

"I know."

"It's meant to frighten you."

"I know."

"Saladin, do you think?"

"I doubt it. It doesn't matter."

Conrad blinked at the flat, harsh tone. There was something frightening in Richard's lack of emotion. Usually when he lost his temper it was all fire and thunder and the wrath of God, but this … oh, this was worse. This could very easily be deadly. "Doesn't matter?"

"No." Richard gave him a sharp, smouldering look. "I will not be intimidated, Conrad. Do you hear me? My enemies will learn this. My hand will not be forced."

"No, my lord."

"Kill the prisoners."

"My lord?" Conrad started, feeling a chill go down his neck. Not this. "Sweet Jesu, Richard …"

The English king lifted the dagger, letting the blade catch the light. It reflected in his eyes, blank and bare and utterly cold. "You heard me, Conrad. Kill them all."

The rest of the day was blood.

* * *

It hurt, to have been so wrong. Nasir saw the slaughter begin from the small camp he and Sarak had shared, and knew that he had caused it, and that he would never forgive or forget. Not himself, and not Richard of England. Richard, who would not be forced any more than a lion would be forced, and Nasir should have thought of that, should have known … there was so much blood that the sand could not soak it up. It churned to a red mud about the soldiers' boots, flowed like syrup to the shore where the waves picked it up and turned it into a pink foam. Overhead, kites were already starting to swarm.

And Sarak was gone. It would have helped, not to be alone with this. He very badly wanted Sarak to shout at him right now, to curse him in the name of every life he had lost this day. Every life he had wanted to save. But Sarak had not been here when he had returned. Instead, there had been only his horse, hobbled and patient, and a note tied to her saddle with a leather thong bearing a small silver medallion. The medallion was Sarak's, won years ago in a duel. The note was Sarak's as well. Nasir was no fool; he knew what Sarak had done. Not the details, of course … but he knew. He was not even sure how far he could blame him. It made him want to howl. The words only made a bitter morning cut deeper.

_Nasir, my brother. I will not be returning with you to Masyaf. It is not safe that I go there, not now. It is best that you do not know my reasons, so that you may answer the Da'i truthfully when you are questioned. Take this note; show it when they ask._

I have fallen from my faith in our Order, my brother. I urge you not to follow in my example. Stay your path, Nasir. Be true, uphold your name. May Allah the Beneficent bless and keep you.

And then, scrawled in a cramped hand almost as an afterthought;

_I am sorry, Malik. Sorrier than you know._

"Oh, Sarak, my friend. I'm sorry too."

He rode away from all of it – the blood, the death, the betrayal and the loss – with the weight of three thousand souls upon him. Something cold and cruel coiled about his heart, pinching with ragged talons, and did not let go. All the world was death and loss, and in Masyaf there was nothing but death and loss for him go back to. But he would go back still. He couldn't not. After today, there was nowhere else for him.

And heavier than all the three thousand souls that had died was the one who yet lived, friend and brother and betrayer, and that, somehow, was the worst thing of all.


End file.
